


Matters of Taste

by bendingsignpost



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Cooking, Devotion, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fluff and Humor, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Matchmaking, Pining, Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Tea Parties, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 08:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21316960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: Dedue mentally relives every meal he’s ever shared with the prince in the entire time he’s known him. Not a wince when Dedue spices to his heart’s content. Not a grimace at marching rations. Not a moment of hesitation in personally demonstrating to Dedue which weeds are edible.Never, not once in nine years, not one single smile at anything Dedue has poured his heart and soul into preparing.“...He has no sense of taste,” Dedue realizes.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic & Dedue Molinaro, Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert & Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro, Flayn & Dedue Molinaro, Mercedes von Matritz & Dedue Molinaro, Sylvain Jose Gautier & Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 29
Kudos: 404





	Matters of Taste

“Chef Deddles! Chef Deddles!”

Dedue looks up from where he sits at the long, dining hall table. Beside him, Annette chokes on her own words. Across from them at the next table over, Felix twists around on the bench and, facing Felix, Ingrid’s gaze oscillates between Dedue and the young woman calling for him.

“What is it, Flayn?” Dedue asks.

Flayn practically skids to a stop between the tables, standing as straight as any soldier, her curls bouncing like those of the energetic schoolgirl yet inside her. “Chef Deddles, I have a cooking problem!”

Behind Flayn, Felix’s mouth twists with sarcasm, humor, and a rare indecisiveness: which target to attack first? Even Ingrid’s mouth puckers inward with a stranglehold of politeness. Despite Dedue’s best efforts, Flayn’s cooking remains infamous throughout the monastery.

Ignoring Felix and Ingrid, ignoring even Annette’s quizzically repeated “Chef Deddles?”, Dedue calmly responds, “Tell me. We will solve it.”

Flayn primly clambers over the bench to sit with her hands earnestly clasped upon the table. “How,” she asks, “do you cook for someone with no sense of taste?”

Looking down at his own half-empty plate, Dedue takes a moment to consider.

“I’d think you could do anything you want,” Felix comments.

“Felix,” Ingrid chides.

Flayn twists around and, despite the height difference even while seated, flatly stares Felix down. “Indeed I can,” she says, and turns back to Dedue. “And what I want to do is whatever you do.”

“For someone who has burned their tongue, avoid hot foods,” Dedue advises. “Their sense of taste will return more quickly that way.”

Flayn shakes her head. “That’s not what I mean. How do you cook for someone with no sense of taste at all? Where it doesn’t matter if his tongue is burned or not.”

“A curious hypothetical,” Dedue grants her.

Flayn frowns.

Her eyes widen.

Her mouth falls open in equal parts surprise and dismay.

“Flayn, what is it?” Annette asks.

Flayn glances the once over her shoulder to confirm that Felix and Ingrid are no longer paying such close attention. She leans in, lowers her voice, and says, “Dimitri.”

Dedue stares at her. “His Highness?”

Flayn nods. “He told me.” She flushes. “He admitted it’s why, well. Why he could eat my cooking.”

“I can eat your cooking,” Dedue says.

“And I’m still so sorry about that, Chef Deddles,” Flayn says. “But this wasn’t him critiquing my technique. This was… He said he’s had no sense of taste since the Tragedy of Duscur.”

Something inside Dedue’s mind slowly turns over.

Annette stares very hard at the side of his face while Dedue mentally relives every meal he’s ever shared with the prince in the entire time he’s known him. Not a wince when Dedue spices to his heart’s content. Not a grimace at marching rations. Not a moment of hesitation in personally demonstrating to Dedue which weeds are edible.

Never, not once in nine years, not one single smile at anything Dedue has poured his heart and soul into preparing.

“...He has no sense of taste,” Dedue realizes.

“It’s not your fault,” Annette realizes alongside him, following his thoughts with surprising accuracy.

“What isn’t his fault?” Flayn asks.

“Dedue’s always strived to make Dimitri happy with his cooking,” Annette explains. “I’d wondered what kind of impossible standards Dimitri must have to keep that from happening, but really, this makes a lot more sense.”

Nodding, Flayn replies, “It sounds like he can eat anything, but he can’t enjoy anything. So, Chef Deddles: what should I do?”

“...I will tell you once I know,” Dedue replies.

“Nuh-uh, no,” Annette interrupts. “I’m getting Ashe and Mercedes, and we’ll figure this out together. I know I’m a scatterbrain in the kitchen, but they’re so good.”

“Once I devise a plan of attack, I’ll welcome their help,” Dedue promises. “For now, I’d like to think.”

“We’ll brainstorm in the greenhouse!” Annette says brightly, though Dedue has reminded her countless times that he prefers weeding in silence.

“Most excellent!” Flayn exclaims, getting back up with a bound. “I’ll find Ashe and Mercedes and meet you there. I bet they’re at the cathedral.” She sets off and away as quickly as she’d arrived.

Instead of immediately summoning a myriad of ideas, Annette simply looks up at him and asks, “So… Chef Deddles?”

“Flayn has earned the right to call me whatever she wishes,” Dedue replies, somewhat more sternly than intended. “When it comes to matters of the kitchen, she is my student.”

Annette nods along with hopeful eyes. “And if I wanted to call you that…?”

“You may not.”

“But what if I studied really, really hard?” Annette asks.

“You always do.”

“Exactly.”

“You still may not call me that.”

“We’ll see,” Annette sing-songs.

The next time it is Ashe’s turn for cooking duty in the mess hall, Dedue comes along to help. Or, rather, Ashe permits Dedue to help. Naturally, Flayn and Annette come along too.

“At my father’s restaurant, he prided himself on his plating,” Ashe explains, carefully allotting a low wall of rice across the center of three plates. On the top side of each plate goes the stewed chicken, the yellow juices immediately soaking into the side of the rice. On the bottom side, the vegetable medley completes the dish. The overall effect is faintly reminiscent of a yellow sunrise over snowy hills, with the colors of spring flourishing beneath. “Like this, see?”

“I do,” Dedue confirms. “Might I try?”

“Of course! It’s a lot more in the serving than the cooking this way.”

They work together companionably, Dedue practicing on plate after plate until he feels confident enough in technique to experiment on his own. Flayn watches intently in between chopping the batches of vegetables that Annette peels.

“I know we’re meant to focus more on quantity for the mess hall,” Ashe says quietly, perhaps more to himself than to Dedue, and certainly not to their friends behind them, “but I’ve missed this. We can still make it look good.”

“I concur.”

They work together, spooning, ladling; they move around each other with a practiced ease they’ve earned together both on and off the battlefield. Dedue knows how to reach around the shorter man, and Ashe knows how to predict Dedue’s motions largely by feel. Periodically, Dedue falls back to the main business of cooking, Annette and Flayn consistently prepping while Ashe continues to serve. The line of soldiers and monks at the counter never grows long with them working together to feed it.

“Dad always said, you can charge twice more for neat than for a mess,” Ashe muses.

“The difference is very noticeable,” Dedue agrees.

While they continue to plate, focused on their work, a tapping at the wooden counter pulls Dedue’s attention.

“Ingrid?” he asks.

She points over her shoulder. “His Highness just sat down with the professor, so whatever you’re all planning together, it’s time.”

Ashe beams at her. “Thanks, Ingrid.”

“Of course!” She looks down at the plates lined up along the counter. “Wow, this looks really good.”

“Would you bring His Highness this plate?” Dedue asks, putting the finishing touches on what has been his best work all evening. “This one, in particular.”

Many others in their army would have eyed Dedue in expectation of a poisoning attempt at that, but Ingrid merely nods and takes a second plate for herself.

“Flayn,” Dedue prompts, and his assistant whips off her apron in an instant, swapping it for a plate of her own.

“I’ll report back soon, Chef Deddles!” she promises, her other hand pressed to her chest as she bows.

“You don’t want to see for yourself?” Annette asks as Dedue takes up the counter space beside her. “Whether it makes him smile?”

“The knowledge that it happened will be satisfaction enough,” Dedue answers.

They continue as they have been, and it’s with a strange sort of pride that Dedue notices the chopping of the vegetables become less precise in Flayn’s absence. Very faintly, the plating suffers for it.

Some half an hour later, after the busiest rush of hungry soldiers, after Raphael’s second portion, Flayn reports back in, visibly dejected.

“No!” Annette exclaims at the mere sight of that disappointment, tugging on Ashe’s sleeve. “But it was so good!”

“What happened, Flayn?” Ashe asks.

“He was talking to the professor the whole time,” Flayn explains. “I don’t think he even looked down at his plate once.”

“...Perhaps it was not the best course of action to visually appeal to a one-eyed man known for his focus,” Dedue reflects.

“Tunnel vision, you mean,” Annette sighs.

“What now, Chef Deddles?” Flayn asks.

“Deddles?” Ashe echoes.

“A nickname,” Dedue explains distractedly. “But if sight and taste are insufficient, we must turn to another sense.”

“Well, food only really sounds good if you’re cooking it,” Annette says. “Dimitri isn’t on the cooking roster anymore, so that’s out.”

“I’ve cooked all manner of spicy foods, and His Highness has never seemed to particularly appreciate the smell,” Dedue says.

Annette snaps her fingers. “I’ve got it! Just leave it to me and Mercy.”

“This is really good timing, actually,” Mercedes assures Dedue, spreading a number of library books out across her bed. Some have bookmarks inside. Annette immediately picks up the book with the most. “Since we’ve been short on so many ingredients, I’ve been researching traditional recipes for snacks and sweets. We all used to have to make due with so much less, you see.”

Arms folded, Dedue nods. “And what do they smell like, freshly baked?”

“Well, I haven’t gotten to try all of them yet,” Mercedes says apologetically.

“That is fine. We can try as many as we have resources for.”

Beside Mercedes, Annette lets out a giddy little squeal before sheepishly covering her mouth. “Sorry,” she says. “It’s just, nobody ever warns you what war does to your sweet tooth.”

“Then I am pleased not to have one.” Dedue has never known Dimitri to have one either, but then, evidently, Dedue has never known Dimitri to have any kind of taste at all. “Still, how are we to bring them to His Highness?”

Both of the women stare at Dedue blankly.

“By… giving them to him?” Annette says, as if it is truly that simple.

Dedue shakes his head. “It would be very strange for me to simply give His Highness sweets without warning. I don’t want him realizing how much this matter has distracted me from the war effort.”

Annette simply shrugs. “Well, the professor often gives out little gifts and treats for motivation… Maybe we could get the professor to do it.”

“We are hardly the students we once were five years ago,” Dedue points out.

“No, but morale is still important,” Annette says, not unfairly.

“Hm,” Mercedes hums, tapping her chin. “You know, I do have tea with a lot of people. I think I have a bit of a reputation for it, actually.”

“Ooh, that’s true!” Annette agrees, pointing to Mercedes while looking at Dedue triumphantly. “Dedue, what kind of tea does Dimitri like best?”

“Chamomile,” Dedue answers without hesitation.

“Chamomile, got it.” Annette claps her hands together. “I’ll go get some from the market.”

“Annie, wait,” Mercedes bids her. “Let me write down an ingredient list, first.” She does so, and hands the list to Annette. “Meet us at the mess hall, okay?”

“Sure thing. But won’t it be too busy for us to bake today?”

Dedue shakes his head. “Flayn is on the roster for today. While her grasp of the basics has noticeably improved...”

Annette winces. “Yeah, it’ll be cleared out, then.”

“Her consistency in chopping technique was instrumental to Ashe’s plating efforts,” Dedue reminds her.

“Maybe,” Annette allows, “but nobody’s letting her near the spices any time soon.”

“No,” Dedue agrees while Mercedes giggles.

“Maybe Ashe could teach her those?” Mercedes suggests. “I know he’s helped me a lot.”

“Regardless,” Dedue says, clearing his throat, “if we are to secure His Highness’s presence while the baked goods are still hot, Mercedes should invite him before we begin.”

“Good point,” Mercedes agrees. “Dedue, you take, hm, these two books to the mess hall. Annette, get the shopping. I’ll meet up with both of you at the kitchens and let you know if Dimitri agreed. Even if he doesn’t accept my invitation today, we can still practice baking, right?”

“Of course!” Annette exclaims, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I’ll see you both soon!”

Dedue follows more slowly, taking the books and offering Mercedes any assistance in tidying her room.

“Mm, no,” she answers. “It’s warm enough out today that I think we could try to have tea in the courtyard.” She smiles widely. “That way, you could just so happen to be passing through and join us.”

Dedue ducks his head. “Perhaps… I could help you carry the supplies from the kitchens.”

“That would work very nicely. All right, see you soon!”

Dedue departs. As he makes it to the kitchens first, he naturally detours to assist Flayn. The rest of the monastery staff working the kitchens visibly relax when he appears, anti-Duscur prejudices notwithstanding. Sheepishly, Flayn points to where she’d scalded herself, and then healed herself.

“No real harm done,” she emphasizes. “Well. No lasting damage. I don’t need you to rescue me today.”

“I didn’t come to rescue you.”

“Oh,” she says, tilting from proud to disappointed. “Then why?”

He tells her.

She doesn’t seem to hear anything after the words sweets.

“I’ll help,” she promises. “Please, allow me to assist you, Chef Deddles!”

“Once you finish kitchen duty, perhaps,” Dedue begins to say, only to be interrupted by one of the monks:

“She’s done,” the monk says. “She’s really, really done.”

Hands on her hips, Flayn glowers up at the man, but she’s distracted away easily enough when Dedue shows her the recipe books. Mercedes joins them soon after and happily confirms that Dimitri will be joining her for tea in the courtyard after his afternoon briefing with Sir Gilbert and Professor Byleth.

Just as they’re collectively debating whether to send a search party out for Annette, she appears, Ashe beside her with a number of parcels. “I got everything,” Annette declares. “Look, I crossed it off the list and everything. Plus a little extra, because, you know, Ashe and haggling.”

With a small smile, Ashe sets everything down on the counters. “It was fun. So what’s this I’m hearing about traditional cookies?”

Mercedes explains it to him at length. A much longer length than necessary, what with Annette chiming in, but the pair complete each other’s sentences (and paragraphs) well enough that it’s easy to follow. This is fortunate: though Ashe and Dedue have ample experience cooking meals, neither can be accurately described as a baker. To Dedue’s knowledge, the only thing Flayn has ever baked is fish.

They put Flayn in charge of measuring amounts, Ashe in charge of keeping the oven temperature steady, and Mercedes and Annette both pick a different recipe.

“It’s honey almond,” Mercedes explains of hers. “I think it’ll go with with the chamomile tea. Plus, we already know Annette loves them.”

“An excellent choice,” Dedue agrees. “Annette, which is yours?”

Annette smiles up at him. “Cinnamon cookies.”

Dedue blinks down at her.

Still grinning, Annette elbows him gently in the stomach. “I know you don’t have a sweet tooth, but you definitely have a cinnamon one.”

Flayn’s head pops up from where she’s been steadfastly sifting flour. A white cloud puffs over the black of her uniform. “You prefer cinnamon, Chef Deddles?”

“It’s not important,” Dedue answers quietly. He clears his throat. “Mercedes, do you wish to roast the almonds first, or will the honey caramelize them while they bake?”

Mercedes lives up to her nickname and takes mercy on him. With this many hands combined with clear direction, the work goes quickly and easily. Annette and Mercedes mix ingredients, Dedue and Flayn prep the pans, and Ashe tends the fire with almost a blacksmith’s precision. Unfortunately, their cooking efforts aren’t the only thing that is unified.

“A little more time in the oven, don’t you think, Chef Deddles?” Ashe asks him with just a little too much of a smile.

“The honey almond cookies seem to be done,” Dedue replies.

“Chef Deddles is right,” Mercedes agrees.

Dedue is, to put it lightly, doomed. He comforts himself that at least Annette’s absentminded singing can’t seem to find a rhyme for “Deddles” yet. Still, it’s only a matter of time.

For now, Dedue focuses himself on the task at hand, his gratitude for his comrades’ assistance and guidance… and Dimitri’s coming reaction. Quietly, transferring sufficiently cooled treats into a tasteful basket Mercedes had prepared, Dedue prays to a few more gods than may be strictly appropriate for the situation. They’ve timed their preparations well, and the monastery bells only begin to toll the hour once the basket is filled.

As a group, they troop over to the courtyard, each of them sure to be holding something to justify their presence. Ashe sets the table while Mercedes fusses over the tea. Flayn and Annette keep watch at either end of the courtyard, looking about for Dimitri’s approach. Dedue stands useless and large, his legs too long for the height of the table, his hands ungainly next to the small teacups.

They wait.

Mercedes places a tea cozy upon the pot.

Annette and Flayn both return in confusion, then comfort themselves by sneaking a treat.

“He probably forgot until the bells rang,” Ashe says to Dedue. “It’s a bit of a walk.”

Dedue nods.

They continue to wait.

Ashe and Annette pull over chairs from the other tables, and they all sit, some of them closer to the table than others. Dedue lingers on the edge of their circle, his long legs an easy excuse.

Running footsteps reach his ears, but each footfall is far too light.

“Sorry!” Ingrid says, jogging to a stop beside them. “Dimitri said-” She cuts herself off, looking from Mercedes to the entire group. “He said he was only meeting with you, Mercy.”

“Well...” Mercedes begins.

Having initially glanced over him, Ingrid’s eyes snap to Dedue. “Oh,” Ingrid says, all confusion falling from her face. “Dedue, this was actually for you and Dimitri, wasn’t it?”

“For His Highness,” Dedue corrects, but everyone else speaks over him in the same instant, uttering a single, emphatic, “Yes.”

“So, did Dimitri send you to ask us to wait?” Annette asks Ingrid. “Or is he not coming?”

“Not coming,” Ingrid says with a sad shake of her head. “Shamir’s spies brought in new information. Dimitri and his aides are going to be meeting for a while longer. Dimitri thought, since you and I have tea so often, Mercy, that you wouldn’t mind me coming in his place.”

“Is he meeting with my- Who is he meeting with?” Flayn asks.

“Seteth’s there,” Ingrid answers. “Sir, uh, Gilbert and the professor, too.”

Flayn and Annette get up with matching determination in their eyes.

“Dedue, get the basket,” Annette says. “I’m bringing my father cookies.”

“Me too,” Flayn declares. “I mean, I’m coming too.”

“I doubt the interruption will be appreciated,” Dedue warns them, but everyone else has already begun to act.

“We’ll stay here with the tea,” Ashe says, passing Mercedes plates. “It’d be too awkward carrying it upstairs and passing it into the meeting room.”

“And I’ll still have tea with Ingrid,” Mercedes adds, putting a few of each cookie onto each of three plates. “That way, nothing strange will have happened and the surprise won’t be spoiled for Dimitri.”

“Wait, how big of a plan is this?” Ingrid asks, again looking to every face in the group.

“We’ll fill you in while they go,” Ashe promises.

Nodding, Mercedes hands Dedue the basket.

“I don’t feel I’m necessary for this delivery,” Dedue states, caught flatfooted.

Annette shakes her head. “You’re a gentleman who carries things, Dedue.”

“And, let’s face it,” Flayn adds, “if they know you supervised me baking these, they’ll actually eat them.”

Annette makes a very polite face of trying not to agree too strongly.

Off they go, Dedue trailing behind like a kite without enough wind. They pull him by words and backward glances, all the way inside and up the stairs, all the way to the meeting room. Flayn goes ahead and knocks, a quick little pattern that’s particular to her.

Inside, muffled voices fall quiet, but the door immediately opens.

“Yes?” asks Thunderstrike Catherine.

“Flayn, now is not a good time!” Seteth calls from inside.

“We’re here for morale!” Annette declares, and she pushes on Dedue’s arm.

Dedue holds out the basket.

Quizzically, Catherine takes it. She takes a backward step into the room, allowing Dedue to see the tables and numerous chairs, now only occupied at the far end. Sat between the professor and Sir Gilbert, Dimitri looks up at Dedue, the weight of his single-eyed gaze heavier than that of any man with twice that number.

Flayn steps forward and very clearly states to all gathered: “Dedue and Annette did most of the work. They’re really good!”

“Flayn,” Seteth says, clearly equal parts exasperated and endeared.

“Thank you, Flayn, Annette,” Dimitri interrupts. Perhaps it is only in Dedue’s imagination that Dimitri lingers before concluding, “Dedue.”

Dedue bows, and makes to take his leave.

“Wait,” Dimitri adds. “Dedue, you should remain.”

Catherine looks back over her shoulder before shrugging and opening the door wider. Annette and Flayn both bob quick bows to the room at large, and smiles to Dedue in particular. They take their leave, and Catherine shuts the door once more before taking up a post against it. She passes the basket back to Dedue.

Dedue approaches the table. He sets the basket down closest to Dimitri before sitting in the closest available spot, beside Seteth, across from Shamir.

“Dedue, you have the most experience infiltrating into the Empire’s defenses,” Dimitri states. “My life is proof enough of that. Seteth, will you walk Dedue through the proposed plan?”

“Certainly,” Seteth agrees, and stands to draw a large map of Enbarr closer. He details the plan concisely, elaborating ably with each of Dedue’s questions, before asking in turn, “Your thoughts?”

“Despite the Emperor’s claims that each shall rise or fall beneath their own merits, much the Empire itself still ignores the common folk,” Dedue replies. “This includes their vassal states. That is how I was able to pass myself off as a particularly dark citizen of Brigid. While the people of Enbarr will certainly know how to recognize the common folk of their city, they are far weaker at recognizing the poor of other areas. I suggest that instead of disguising our forces primarily as merchants, we err more toward an appearance of refugees.”

“I agree,” Shamir adds. “It’s true we could carry more supplies in as merchants, but resources are so strained that a well-stocked, strange merchant is too suspicious. Refugees clinging to every scrap of fabric they have ever owned, however, are widespread.”

“If memory serves, the slums lie on this side of the city,” Seteth says, and so the planning continues. Dedue adds what he can about servants’ entrances and how to locate them, all the little back doors that are meant to be ignored, even by their owners.

They talk and talk, heads bent over the map, counters being swept back and forth across its surface. More than once, Gilbert brushes away a small crumb, but Dedue thinks little of it until Catherine approaches from her position at the door.

“Hey, save some of those for me.” Leaning across the table, she snatches up an almond cookie from the basket before Seteth can get to it. “And let Dedue have at least one, too, c’mon.”

Dedue blinks up at her, then over at Dimitri. “If His Highness hasn’t…”

Dimitri shakes his head. “I’ve had my fill. Dedue, please.” And he slides the basket toward Dedue’s side of the table.

“You tried them?”

“You’re very focused,” Seteth tells Dedue, setting a hand on his shoulder. “I can see why Dimitri wanted you here.”

Dedue is very focused. He is so focused, he can see faint crumbs on the table before Dimitri.

...He’d missed it.

“Thank you,” Dedue says quietly, and resigns himself to another attempt.

“So you’ve already tried dinner and tea,” Ingrid summarizes, joining the group over breakfast the following morning. They all have their duties for the day, but this much, they can fit in beforehand. “What else can we put together instead? Something Dimitri can’t skip or ignore.”

Everyone thinks about that long and hard. Felix approaches with a plate of his own, Sylvain chatting beside him, and Ingrid waves them both over. Flayn scoots to give Felix room. Sylvain plops down beside Ingrid, slinging an arm around her shoulders. When Ingrid shoves it off, Sylvain goes in for his true target and steals bacon off her plate with his other hand.

“Gets you every time,” Sylvain teases with a wink.

Ingrid just looks at him flatly before switching her half-empty plate with his full one and blatantly daring him to do anything about it.

Completely ignoring the scene across from her, Flayn says, “Felix, you’ve known Dimitri forever. What can’t he ignore?”

Felix scoffs. “A fight.”

“Training,” Ingrid immediately agrees.

“How do we make training better?” Mercedes asks.

“An adoring audience, full of beautiful women,” Sylvain answers. When Ingrid elbows him, he adds, “Or men, if that’s your thing.”

Rolling her eyes, Ingrid only elbows him again. “Not what we’re going for, Sylvain.”

“If you want to improve training session, give the boar a sword he can’t break,” Felix says.

Sylvain laughs. “Oh, man, that’s impossible.”

“There’s got to be something else,” Annette says. “We’ve already got as good of training weapons as we’re going to get. What about, hm.”

“I don’t think having snacks mid-session would be helpful,” Ashe says.

“Definitely not,” Felix says. “Water’s all you need.”

Flayn sits up tall. “That’s it! Drinks.”

“Mercy, that thing you did with a little bit of orange juice in the water was nice,” Ingrid says. “Or that mint cucumber thing.”

“Are you all serious,” Felix says.

“We’re trying to…” Ingrid glances at Dedue, then back to Felix. “Improve Dimitri’s morale.”

“Hmph. The only problem the boar has is breaking his own weapons before he overheats.”

“Cold drinks!” Flayn says. “Chef Deddles, we need cold drinks.”

“...Chef…?” Sylvain asks.

“Deddles,” answers half of those gathered.

Dedue does what he can to control the involuntary act of blushing.

“Okay, Chef Deddles,” Sylvain says. “What are we going to do to make your boy happy?”

There is too much there to address, so Dedue settles for replying, “His Highness is not a ‘boy’ any longer.”

“Nope,” Sylvain says with an easy grin. “He’s a big grown manly man. So what are we gonna do for him?”

Everyone, even Felix, looks at Dedue for an answer.

“Finding sufficient ice for cold water at this time of year is difficult,” Dedue says slowly. “We can’t waste what we have.”

Everyone considers that.

“...I have an idea,” says Ashe.

Ingrid and Dimitri spar in the training grounds, spear against spear, and Dedue feigns a lack of attention as he and Raphael haul in a barrel filled with water. They stand it up in the far corner, where Ashe and Marianne wait beside an empty barrel.

“You’ll do great,” Ashe assures Marianne.

Uncharacteristically, Marianne nods, her hands clasped together, her head held high. Since they rescued her from a forest filled with demonic beasts, her personally has taken a noticeable turn towards confidence. “I’ll do my best.”

Ashe beams at her. “Great!”

“Yeah, let’s see some target practice,” Raphael encourages.

Everyone stands back to watch Marianne’s blizzard spells in action. Today, rather than exploding through the air with bursts of ice blades pulled from the humidity itself, Marianne works far more precisely. She starts close to the barrel, looking inside, and with each successful spell, Raphael hauls out a new, large chuck of ice to drop in the empty barrel.

“Do you think you could step back and still cast without breaking the barrel?” Ashe suggests.

“I, I think so,” Marianne hedges, before doing just that.

“This is awesome!” Raphael fumbles the new ice block back into the rapidly filling barrel. “We’re gonna have ice year round!”

“Hey,” Ingrid calls over, her spar with Dimitri having ended three spells ago (which Dedue has pretended not to notice). “Do you think you could drop some of that in the drinking water?” She points toward the bucket on one of the benches, and the ladle beside it.

“Sure!” Raphael agrees, ever-willing to perform any muscular endeavor. He grabs yet another head-sized chunk of ice with his bare hands… only for it to slip from his grip halfway there. There’s more, of course, but that block smashes apart.

Training spear in one hand, Dimitri bends down, picks up a sizable fragment, and presses it to the side of his neck. His eye closes. His head tilts farther to the side, and he sighs with unmistakable relief.

Abruptly feeling the heat himself, Dedue can only agree.

“Marianne, are you sure this is good to put in the drinking water?” Dimitri asks after too short a moment, composing himself. His hair sticks to his face with sweat, to his neck with ice water. “You had health concerns when we considered this before.”

“I’ve, um,” Marianne says. “I’ve talked it over with the professor. And with Linhardt. Nothing about my, my magic should hurt anyone. Unless I’m casting it at them, of course.”

Dimitri considers her a moment longer before nodding. “Excellent. Raphael, would you bring the barrel to the kitchens when Marianne is finished? And perhaps you could cast closer to the kitchens next time, now that you know your aim is true.”

By the time everyone agrees that this is a wonderful plan, Ingrid has the ice water ready.

“Your Highness?” she offers.

Dimitri shakes his head. “It won’t do to cramp my stomach halfway through training.”

“Halfway?” Ingrid asks. “I thought we were finished.”

“You and I are,” Dimitri replies with a nod. “Dedue, with me.”

“...Of course,” Dedue answers.

“Was moving the barrels an adequate warm up?” Dimitri asks. When Dedue nods, Dimitri points him towards the training weapons lined against the wall.

As Dedue dutifully goes, Ashe shoots him a sympathetic wince of a smile.

Before they finish in the training yard, they do use the ice again, if only to cool down for a minute. Dedue places it at the inside of each wrist; Dimitri again applies the ice to his neck. Dedue looks away.

He will find something else.

“What’s next, Chef Deddles?” Flayn asks. “Give the order, I’m ready!”

Dedue does not sigh, but he does faintly wish, just for a moment, to be the sort of man who does sigh.

“We are preparing travel rations,” Dedue informs her.

“But besides that. For the Mission.”

Dedue shakes his head. “For now, that must be delayed.”

Flayn’s face falls. “So… trail food?”

“Yes. The hard cheeses, jerky, and dried fruits have already been prepared.”

Flayn’s face falls in quite a different way. “That’s another reason to take Enbarr: I can’t stand eating like this any longer.”

“The night before we leave, I will prepare fish for dinner,” Dedue promises her.

She perks up at that. “Could we also make some of those oatcakes Mercedes taught us to bake? The dried fruit isn’t half so bad in those.”

“If we have time.”

“We will,” Flayn states with a gleam in her eyes. Within a few hours, she proves herself right. They bake the oatcakes with the little time they have remaining, if they’re to go to bed at a reasonable hour. Like Dimitri, Flayn has an irksome tendency to attempt to forgo sleep, and so it is up to Dedue to put an end to their baking session and escort Flayn back to her room.

“Don’t let me be late,” she tells him at her door, as she always does when he drops her off thusly.

“Should the need arise, I will wake you,” Dedue replies.

“Thank you, Chef Deddles,” she says, and hugs him hard.

He hugs her back before spending a winding walk to his own room deep in thought.

Perhaps his goal is an unreasonable one. It’s a fear he must at least acknowledge. Before he knew about Dimitri’s inability to taste, Dedue’s goal of pleasing the man through cooking had been a simple one. His mother had cooked to please his father, and his father had crafted her iron pots and sharp knives to please her in return. The system had been a fine one: a furnished kitchen to furnish the table, and an entire family satisfied in the bargain.

Upon reflection, the joint effort is not unlike that of his compatriots. And if all of them combined cannot bring Dimitri to smile at food or drink, then perhaps it is not something which can be done. Dedue may have to, yet again, try something else.

There are already so many things which Dimitri has forbidden Dedue to do. To accompany him always. To help him bathe. To dress him. To know his intimate comings and goings. And that was simply how matters stood when they were still at school.

There is nothing Dedue would not do for him, and yet so little he can do. He saved his prince’s life, yes, but then spent years recovering from the hurts earned in the effort. His regained strength has been hard won. Moreover, his time spent convalescing has taught him that he must lend more aid than simple fighting.

Dimitri has plenty of warriors. An entire army.

He has no need for a gardener, though Dedue would make an able one.

He has blacksmiths far more skilled than Dedue ever learned to be.

Dimitri has access to more experienced cooks as well, but there are no others half so attentive as Dedue. And so, it is at this that Dedue must toil.

As Dedue readies himself for bed—and for the march yet to come in the days ahead—he comforts himself that at least Dimitri is partial to the toughness of jerky.

The march is hard.

The march is long.

The march is steady, and unrelenting, and increasingly deep into enemy territory.

They do what they can to disguise waves of troops as waves of refugees. Here are their wagons, laden not with weapons, but with the last of their possessions.

Battalion after battalion, they march.

They make camp.

They march again.

Their final battle draws nearer. Or, rather, they draw nearer to it.

The night before the battle that will put an end to five years of war, Dimitri calls Dedue to his tent. Dedue goes, as he always goes. This is not the tent Dimitri uses to plan with Professor Byleth or Sir Gilbert, but instead Dimitri’s private tent.

“What do you need, Your Highness?” Dedue asks.

“To be calm,” Dimitri answers. He sits upon the edge of his cot, and in the faint candlelight permitted within the camp, he appears more beggar than prince.

Slowly, uncertain of both his welcome and of the cot’s ability to hold them both, Dedue sits beside Dimitri on his good side. “You would rest more easily out of your armor.”

“My body might,” Dimitri allows, “but my mind would not. Not until this is over, Dedue.”

Dedue nods.

They sit in silence, watching the motions of the candle. Occasionally, Dedue feels the weight of Dimitri’s gaze upon his face, but he feels no pressure to speak. He seldom does.

It is Dimitri who breaks the silence first. “I’m keeping you from your own rest. Or dinner. Did you eat?”

“I did. And you?”

“Yes.”

They continue to watch the candle.

“I have,” Dedue begins to say, then stops.

“What do you have?” Dimitri asks.

Dedue shakes his head.

“I’ve never known you to misspeak, Dedue. Finish what you began. Please.”

“I have something,” Dedue replies. He withdraws it from his belt pouch, a folded piece of cheesecloth. “An oatcake.” As Dedue unfolds the cloth, the days old cake still smells good: roasted oats, nuts, and dried fruit, bound together with honey.

Dimitri looks at it.

“Said aloud, it sounds… small,” Dedue says, “but I wished to have something on hand.”

“To restore your energy mid battle?” Dimitri asks, already nodding. “A wise decision.”

“No.”

Dimitri looks up at Dedue’s face.

Dedue breaks the oatcake in half. He hands the larger half, as always, to Dimitri.

“To celebrate our victory.”

Dimitri smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, to see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/).


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